Pants
by devinewaterdragon
Summary: One shot. No pairings. Duo POV. Hopefully funny.Edited some stuff


EDIT: Fixed some stuff .

Please, please just don't ask. I don't know WHAT made me do this. I haven't wrote a fic in forever and a half.

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**ar·mi·stice** (ärm-sts)  
_n._

A temporary cessation of fighting by mutual consent; a truce.

I stare at the dictionary. And I'm sure if the dictionary had eyes it would stare right back. I make it very, very sure that my company of one hears my terribly, awfully bored moan. Wait for a moment… The nerve of him, he didn't even give me a look. Yanno, one of his _looks_.

Little punk. I hope he burns in hamster hell.

I groan and half-heartedly throw the dictionary on the old coffee table that separates me from my sole company. And when I say sole, I mean it; there's no TV in this place. No radio, either. Absolutely nothing to keep me entertained, nothing at all, _not even_ my sole company; I could have better and more meaningful conversations with my _hair_. Seriously, taking to him is like talking to a _rock_. (Though a rock is better company)

Not that I have anything against this little cabin, I rather like it, it's just that it's ungodly hot outside and there's no lake or river in walking distance. At least we have air conditioning. Glorious air conditioning. That's why I pick this couch to lay on, it's right under the vent. So here I lie on my back, one hand behind my head and the other dangling off of the small, plush couch.

I can't help a grin of remembrance from when the other three were still here. We were all bored on day. I mean, really, really, terribly, awfully, horrendously bored one day (obviously not your typical garden-variety boredom). So, after a brief conference with Q-ball we decided we were all going to play a manly-man game of "lets all wax our legs and see who can go the longest without screaming like a little girl."

Q won. (I think he cheated on the account he probably has waxed before)

Well, there was good new and bad news about that entire situation.

Good news: My legs were shiny and beach-friendly! (Yay!)

Bad news: No beach. (Boo!)

Then the three of them up and left me with Mr. You-Can-Not-Go-Into-Town-To-Entertain-Yourself.

I stare at my companion and ex-best friend; the title of "best friend" got reassigned to Jeff, the daddy long-leg that lives in the corner of my room. And I made sure the little punk _knew_ a _spider_ replaced him. And he knows I don't like spiders, too.

Fwhaha.

Look at him, lost in his own little world typing away at that laptop.

I wonder when they'll announce the wedding.

They'll have wonderfully freakish half computer, half rock babies together.

I groan, again, before turning my head to pout at the other pilot. It's hot and boring. I would take my shirt off if it weren't already off. I wish he'd let me go into town to get a pair of shorts; black pants and sun are not best friends. Not even close.

Pants… A pair of pants. Why is it called a "pair" if it's only one thing? Same thing with shorts: "pair of shorts". Maybe… just maybe, a "pant" is just one half of a "pants". Like, split a pair of pants down the middle and you have two pant instead of a single pants.

I voice this shocking theory to my company.

Finally. He gave me a look. One of his looks that's calm, yet shouts: "Are you insane enough yet to let me put out of your misery?" I'll never let him, though. We're going to both grow into wrinkly old men and sit around and play chess all day; only living as not to give the other satisfaction of knowing he lived longer.

"Together we are a pair of pants." I muse with a grin. The look is intensified and altered to "You are insane; be quiet."

"If we get Trowa and Quatre over we can be a quartet of pant." I resist the urge to cackle.

I have the little gerbil now…

He sighs and turns off his laptop, "All right, we can go into town." I give a cry of joy and ditch the couch like yesterday's newspaper.

In the end, I always win.

Heero: 0; Duo: 1.

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Erm… please review? PLEASE ; ; I need the emotional support 


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